Ace-in-the-Hole
by TheSilverHunt3r
Summary: Dazai had spent time searching for Chuuya once he hadn't found his partner with the Sheep. Nothing was different in this timeline, except for Chuuya not being in Japan-everyone else was where they should be. Dazai-centric, Book!Dazai, AU.


Summary: Dazai had spent time searching for Chuuya once he hadn't found his partner with the Sheep. Nothing was different in this timeline, except for Chuuya not being in Japan-everyone else was where they should be. Dazai-centric, Book!Dazai, AU.

Warning-typical Dazai mentions of suicide

"Thinkin' that they've won

It's only just begun

When I go into that ground

I won't go quietly, I'm bringin' my crown

And when I go into that ground

Oh, they gotta bury me, bury me face down."

-Bury Me Facedown, Grandson

The Book always existed in some form, or another. It went from being slate to papyrus, papyrus to wood pulp. It changed from one single scene to one page half-full of writing to one book of mostly empty pages.

A powerful object having existed for so long, would it be all that odd if it became sentient? If it became human. . . yet not? It took centuries for it to learn how to. Seven years ago, wood pulp, the white pages still in the Book, turned to skin, flesh, blood, muscle, and bone. It, now he, took the name Osamu Dazai.

XXX

Yokohama, Japan

Dazai tugged on the man's sleeve.

Mori peered down at his young patient, curious. "Dazai-kun?"

"You're not a normal doctor, are you."

An indulgent smile spread on Mori's face. This was not his first time getting barraged with observations by the child. He hummed. "I guess it depends what you mean by 'normal'."

"I'm not normal either," Dazai bluntly revealed.

"No, you're not," Mori agreed. "But it's better for no one to know about that. It's safer. Okay?"

"Okay," Dazai agreed. Somehow, he knew Mori was right. That he had tried to be open about not being normal. . . and it never worked out.

XXX

Dazai liked his dreams.

He dreamt of many people.

Mori was the only one he had met yet. But he would meet the rest, he knew it. There was Ane-san, Ango-kun, Odasaku, and Chuuya who usually were in the Port Mafia. And then there was Kunikida-kun, Atsushi-kun, Yosano-san, Ranpo-kun, Fukuzawa-san, Kenji-kun, and Kyouka-chan in the Armed Detective Agency.

Dazai will go the usual route for this world, the most common one. He doesn't see why not to? Odasaku is a good friend, even if Dazai hadn't met him yet, and his advice always helps.

XXX

Two Years Later

"Dazai-kun. No," Mori ordered as he pulled the rope away.

Dazai whined. "But I want it."

"For?"

Dazai looked at the ground as he admitted, "I wanted to try hanging myself."

Mori cuffed Dazai on the head. "No," he sternly insisted.

"Okay."

Mori sighed, crouching down so that he could look his ward straight in the eye.

"You are not allowed to try to kill yourself, Dazai-kun."

"Yes, Mori-san," Dazai murmured. He didn't want to live, he had no reason to.

XXX

Six years later

Suribachigai City, Yokohama, Japan

Dazai was the Boss's, Mori's, witness to the former Boss's death. Being in the Port Mafia, he noticed Randou, or Rimbaud, was missing first. Then a year passed, there were no sightings of the old Boss nor Chuuya. It wasn't the normal timeline, that was for sure.

"Who are you?"

Dazai looked meaningfully at the boy's blue bracelet. His brown hair shifted with him, covering one of his eyes. "You're part of the Sheep, right?"

The boy bristled defensively. "Yeah, so what?"

Dazai pressed closer, grabbing hold of the other boy's collar. "Do you know a guy named Chuuya? Red hair, angry, short?"

"No?" The boy went stiff. His hand strayed towards his knife. He was ready to attack Dazai, but he wasn't lying.

Dazai sighed. He forced a grin on his face and let go of the fabric. He waved goodbye as he walked away. "Thanks for the help."

XXX

Unknown City, France

Chuuya, a young teenager with red hair, put his hands in his pockets. He looked like a thug, albeit a thug with good fashion sense.

"What do you want to eat?" A man stood next to him, Rimbaud. He had long black hair.

Chuuya cast a look at his guardian. "How about something warm?"

Rimbaud huffed a laugh. "Alright. That sounds good." Despite the warmth of the summer day, he was bundled up in a coat, scarf, and earmuffs. He was always cold.

The two bought some soup from a street vendor. It was hearty and rich, full of vegetables.

Rimbaud blew on a spoonful of his soup.

Chuuya tapped Rimbaud's shoulder, having to stand on his tiptoes slightly because of the height difference. "I think those guys over there want to 'talk' to us."

"Well, they shall have to wait until we are finished," Rimbaud calmly responded.

Chuuya sighed. "Let's hope they're not stupid enough to interrupt us, I guess," he grumbled.

They were.

Chuuya had his hand up. A bullet hovered in front of his hand, encased in a red glow.

Rimbaud tilted the bowl up and drank the leftover broth. He finished and turned to the men in black suits. "Would you like to explain why you attacked us? Or shall we return in kind?"

XXX

Three years later

Yokohama, Japan

Dazai sprawled himself out on the bench. He let a leg dangle over the edge. He shifted, trying to find a position where the wooden slates didn't dig into his back.

He had just left the Port Mafia, so he had two years to kill before joining the Armed Detective Agency.

Dazai had spent time searching for Chuuya once he hadn't found his partner with the Sheep. Nothing was different in this timeline, except for Chuuya not being in Japan—everyone else was where they should be. And now that Dazai had crossed off Japan as a possibility and was free to travel to other countries, where should he start?

Dazai hummed. He always enjoyed choosing where to travel. There wasn't much to worry about, he had time to explore. He brushed away the tangent thought. That wasn't what he should be doing right now.

Of course, there was the distinct possibility of Chuuya not being alive, not existing in this world. But Suribachigai City had been created, so Chuuya had been in Japan, he did exist. Just as unusual, Rimbaud had never become part of the Port Mafia, nor had Dazai seen Verlaine. Both of the men were from France. Dazai grinned, lazily put his hands behind his head. Looked like he had his first lead.

XXX

Charleville-Mézières, France

Dazai smiled as he propped an elbow on the bar, leaning closer. He gave off a warm, amiable air. "What's so dangerous about a shrimp?"

The man harrumphed. "He may be small, but he could beat anyone in this place with a hand behind his back and a glass of wine in the other hand." He gestured with his own glass, emphasizing his confidence with the loudness of a drunk.

Dazai laughed slightly. He perched his chin on his hand. "He does sound dangerous," he admitted. His lips curled up, "Despite his size."

The man's friend interjected. "I almost wish Chuuya was here to see you poking fun at him. You'd find yourself in hell before you could blink."

Dazai let his grin turn into a slight smirk. He couldn't help it, with success so close. "Chuuya, huh?"

The man's friend swore. He had a yellow scarf around his neck that he tugged at nervously. "Just forget I said that."

"What, he doesn't like people knowing his name?"

The two men shifted uneasily.

Dazai almost sighed. "How about this, tell me his last name so that I know who he is. I'll avoid him wholeheartedly," he promised. He had the childish urge to cross his fingers under the bar counter, where the two men couldn't see his hand.

The man snorted. "You talk big, but you're a coward?" He called out.

"I prefer the term 'someone with common sense'," Dazai joked.

The man slapped Dazai in the back, rattling the younger man's shoulders. "Alright, I like the mouth on you, kid. The guy is Chuuya Nakahara, hangs around downtown, avoid him all you can."

"Noted," Dazai chirped. "Thanks for the advice."

Jackpot.

XXX

Dazai had the general location. He scoped out the bars and waited until the next night. He had to go over the La Meuse several times, because of how the river annoyingly crisscrossed the city—it honestly got a bit repetitive.

His chosen bar was the one with the best wine reviews, of course.

Dazai scanned the place for redheads. Bingo. He raised an eyebrow at the lack of Chuuya's tacky hat—Rimbaud still wasn't dead. Dazai slid into the stool beside Chuuya and ordered a whiskey, not really paying attention to the type much. He was getting it more to blend in, than for the taste.

Chuuya sat straight-backed on the stool, albeit leaning backwards a bit. He had his ankle crossed over his knee. He looked to be the definition of someone at home in their regular bar.

"Hello," Dazai greeted in Japanese.

Chuuya's eyes moved towards Dazai, blue eyes that puzzled at the unknown man beside him. His stance didn't change at all.

"What's a shrimp like you drinking? Are you sure you're not underaged?"

Chuuya snarled at the insult. He shrugged it off as much as he could. "And who the h*ll are you?"

Dazai grinned, happily volunteering, "Osamu Dazai."

"Chuuya Nakahara," Chuuya grumbled in reply.

"You're a slug. You've probably been here for a while and you've barely touched it." Dazai gestured to Chuuya's still largely full glass.

Chuuya glared at Dazai. "And you're a mackerel floating in the sky," the odd insult fell off his tongue with ease. He picked up his glass and downed half in one go.

Dazai laughed. He slumped forward, letting his elbows hit the counter softly. He shook with laughter, hiding his face between his arms.

Chuuya's face was red, partly from alcohol and partly from embarrassment. That was a stupid insult and that was a valid response-he didn't know how to counter that. He angrily took another sip of his wine. "Shut up."

Dazai continued to laugh.

Chuuya frowned in confusion. The whole conversation felt like a well worn groove that he had slipped into automatically. But he'd never met Dazai before—he knew that.

XXX

Dazai hadn't seen the rat sneaking into the town. He regretted that.

He clutched at the hole in his chest, trying to keep conscious long enough to hear them.

"I came to offer you a job."

"What kind of job?"

Dazai heard as he bled out onto the floor in the secret hallway. He bit back a whimper at the pain. So that was Dostoyevsky's game—the Russian was after an ace. Once Dostoyevsky became Chuuya's employer, he would have Chuuya's complete loyalty.

Dazai could only process brief snatches of the two's conversation.

"I would-"

". . . not a problem, I assure you."

". . . to go there?"

". . . days. . . . Fees are. . . ."

". . . of course, we have a deal."

"Good."

Dazai's consciousness started to fade, along with the sound of their footsteps.

Dazai had played dead for long enough. He pulled himself onto his hands and knees. He choked out blood, along with the bullet that had punctured through his heart.

He staggered upright, pressing a bloodied hand to the stone. The tilted sense of balance he was experiencing was matched by his mental state, a confused mess that was barely still working. He left rusted looking hand prints as he shuffled his way through the tunnel, the blood flaking off his palm.

Wet blood still trailed down his mouth and chest. His clothes were stained. There were advantages to wearing black, like the dried blood on your clothes not making you look like a serial killer or barely surviving—really should be dead by now—victim when out in public.

He opened the secret door to the tunnel. All that was left was an empty room.

Dazai's eyes narrowed in anger. He had played a game with Dostoyevsky and lost devastatingly. Usually, he saw things coming and gained something useful. This time? Nothing. He'd been blind sided. This world was so different yet so familiar that he had ignored the possibility of differences.

He always hated losing, especially with strategies, regardless of whether it was Mori or Dostoyevsky. Dazai had lost—lost arguably his most important piece in one stupid move—and that was unacceptable. Possible paths to victory and revenge streaked through his mind.

Dazai hummed. He would make Dostoyevsky regret what he did. A grin etched itself onto his face as he exited the room.

XXX

Around a Year and a Half Later

Yokohama, Japan

"Hello, Kunikida-kun," Dazai chirped as he strolled into his office. Time for his current, favorite past time: teasing his Agency partner. "How's your schedule going?"

Kunikida stood up. The hold on his notebook tightened. "It was going wonderfully, Dazai. Until you didn't show up for work for three hours," he scolded.

Dazai shrugged, unrepentant. He proceeded to sprawl out on one of the office's couches.

He dreamed, with a smile on his face.

XXX

Lyon, France

Chuuya put another piece of split oak wood in the fire. The fire cracked and popped, accepting the fuel eagerly.

"So, how have you been?" Rimbaud asked.

"Well," Chuuya simply summed up.

"How has the job with that Russian been?"

Chuuya shrugged. "It's been alright." He turned the question around, looking over his shoulder. "How have you been?"

"Good. I took a trip to Italy during winter. It was nice." Rimbaud smiled. "Coffee?"

Chuuya got up. He brushed off the wood dust that had made it on his hands and knees. "Sure."

Rimbaud poured out two cups, both were a crimson hue. "Any cream or sugar?" He always took his coffee black.

"I'll do mine. You don't have to." Chuuya grabbed a spoon from the kitchen drawer.

"Alright." Rimbaud sat near the fireplace.

Chuuya dumped in creamer. He stirred in his sugar as he went to sit on the floor beside his former guardian. "I still don't know how you can drink tar."

Rimabaud gestured towards Chuuya's cup. "Would you like some coffee with your milk?"

Chuuya snorted. The spoon clinked against the side of his cup.

Rimbaud sighed. "It's been a while."

"Yeah. Glad to be back, if only for a little bit."

"Are you sure this has nothing to do with your job?"

"Yes," Chuuya immediately said.

Rimbaud watched the younger man patiently.

Chuuya ran a hand through his bangs. "I may have some doubts about things," he admitted.

XXX

Yokohama, Japan

Dazai was cheerful and open. Yet Dazai was. . . vaguely secretive at the same time, the type of person one could trust with secrets, but would always be the type of person to keep unknown secrets of all shapes and sizes.

Yosano reached for Dazai's wrist on instinct—his bandages had become loose. It was only when she had the medical clamp in her hand that she realized Dazai had grown stiff, that he was looking at her warily. Dazai tried to restrain his flinch and the urge to run, but Yosano noticed.

Yosano promptly ignored him, busying herself with the bandages. She didn't take them off, instead she grabbed Dazai's other hand and put it where she wanted. With something to keep the bandages further down in place, she shifted the loose bandages to where they should be. She still saw the skin underneath.

Dazai smiled as he slipped the clamp from her hand with ease. "Thank you," he said.

Yosano shook herself out of her thoughts. "Of course." She had expected scars. But why the h*ll had they looked like kanji?

Things like that lead them to question just how open their coworker was with them. Was Dazai only keeping a few things close to his chest? Were the things he told them simply a false bottom to the endless abyss? Merely an act to keep them from asking the important questions? They had no idea, but they suspected there was far more about Dazai they didn't know than knew.

XXX

Approximately a Year Later

Yokohama, Japan

The tiger had a secondary attribute. It acted like a compass, pulling its host towards the Book. That was why Atsushi always ended up near Dazai. But obviously, Dazai didn't need to find the Book. No, Dazai needed to find the pen, or stylus.

And how was he going to get that?

Dazai sighed. He had sort of forgotten the first step of how to put his overly complicated revenge plan in motion.

Let's see. He had the Book, himself. He had Atsushi as of two day ago. . .and that was about it. But the Book was useless without the pen and he didn't know how to get Atsushi to find the pen for him.

Atsushi was a compass? How accurate was he?

Dazai pulled out his phone. "Hey, Atsushi-kun. Where are you?"

"At the dorms, why?"

"Close your eyes, turn around three times and point in a direction."

"Dazai-san? Okay?"

Dazai heard Atsushi moving around.

"Umm, I'm pointing at my kitchen?"

"That'd be West," towards Dazai's apartment, where he was.

"Umm, Dazai-san? What's going on?"

Dazai grinned. "Thanks for the help." He paused, mulling over how to rope his apprentice into helping him. "Actually, Atsushi-kun, I'm going to send you on a series of tasks tomorrow. To help you sharpen your detective skills, of course."

"Uhh, okay?" Atsushi stammered out, unsure.

"Great."

XXX

Dazai took a train out of the city the next day.

If Atsushi was like a compass, Dazai was a magnet. If Dazai was in Yokohama, he would interfere with things, like a magnet held against the facepiece of a compass, he would disrupt the tiger's ability.

Dazai was the Book and the tiger was drawn to him. It would make sense for the pen to have some sort of draw for the tiger as well, albeit lesser.

Time to send Atsushi on the weirdest scavenger hunt ever.

XXX

Two Hours Later

"So what is it supposed to look like?" Atsushi asked.

Dazai had his phone between his ear and shoulder. He had started playing a game part of the way through, muting the volume so that Atsushi wouldn't hear. "What'd you find?"

"Uhh, a pen? Black, steel nib?"

Dazai was surprised his half-baked plan of Atsushi playing a bastardized version of hot-cold had worked. "You found it," he cheered. "Good job."

"Dazai-san, you didn't have me do all of this just so you could find a pen you lost, right?"

Dazai almost laughed-in a way, Atsushi was right. "No, no," he assured. "It's very important."

XXX

Dazai sat up. He winced at the pain in his chest. He could heal himself back to perfect health, but that would be suspicious. He was supposed to be human. Humans didn't walk off gunshots. Well, unless Yosano used her ability.

A vase of flowers sat on the bedside table. Dazai scooted himself to the edge of his bed. He shot another glance towards the door—no one was there—the nurse shouldn't be back for another half-hour.

He stuck his hand in the vase. Dazai felt the edge of a plastic bag near the bottom and took it out. Water dripped from the bag. He opened it and withdrew a black pen. He put the bag on the table.

He tapped the fountain pen against his wrist, considering his options. What exactly should he write and where?

His arms and torso were completely covered in writing, everything from Japanese and Swahili to English and Russian.

He pulled up his pant leg and unwrapped a section of the bandages.

He brushed his fingers over three black lines that curled around his ankle.

He uncapped the pen and set the nib against his skin. He made slow movements, trying to make the kanji as small as possible. The black ink stung. His handwriting was as scratchy as ever, he idly noted.

He didn't kill Dostoyevsky. Doing something directly and costly like that—part of skillfully using the Book is to create great change through small things because that has a much smaller punishment—he did something else. He wished to speak with something, so that he could make a deal with it.

When Osamu Dazai goes to sleep on October 14th, tonight, he will talk to Arahabaki.

He gritted his teeth, holding back the scream that rose in his throat. The ink burned, sinking into his skin.

XXX

When Chuuya was first formed, he ended Arahabaki's rampage with his iron will, caging the snarling being in the mind they shared. Chuuya was stronger mentally; therefore, Arahabaki could not force his way into control of the body. But Arahabaki had access to the non-human parts of them, Corruption and the Beyond.

Dazai called out into the darkness. "Hello?" He hummed. "Hello, Arahabaki," he sang, skipping forward.

The darkness shifted. A small red fire appeared—an eye opened. A black snout formed, something a shade lighter than the midnight black outlining it.

"Arahabaki, there you are," Dazai cheerfully said. He did not look concerned at all with the dangerous being.

A large beast of black flame stalked fully out of the dark. It was vaguely wolf shaped. Two red eyes made of fire peered at Dazai.

Dazai's grin widened. "I have a proposition for you." His spine curved as he slouched, showing off his nonchalant air.

Arahabaki moved closer. It was wary. It knew what Dazai was, who Dazai was.

"I want you to kill Dostoyevsky. You want control of Chuuya's body." Dazai put his hands in his pocket. He ignored the uncomfortable heat around him.

Arahabaki cocked its head. It opened its maw and spoke, "How?" It's voice was charcoal, dry and dark.

"Simple. Overwhelm Chuuya with memories." Dazai used a hand to gesture around as he spoke, as if to say it was easy.

"Memories," Arahabaki repeated, skeptical.

"Yes, memories. You know of the other Chuuyas, but this Chuuya doesn't. If you overwhelm him with thousands of years of memories from other worlds? His mind won't be able to process it and you can take over." Dazai shrugged. "All you have to do for me, is kill Fyodor Dostoyevsky when I say the phrase 'do not wake me again' and you can walk away in Chuuya's body," Dazai promised. He held out a hand, more of a symbolic gesture than anything else, an invitation. "Do we have a deal?"

Arahabaki inclined its head.

Dazai gave a close-eyed smile. "Wonderful." It didn't matter that Arahabaki would try to kill him after taking care of Dostoyevsky.

Chuuya was now the perfect sleeper agent.

XXX

A Year Later

St. Petersburg, Russia

The melody echoed softly through the halls. It was melancholic, fitting what Chuuya was feeling far too well.

Chuuya pushed the door open. He let his shoes hit the floor in a staccato rhythm.

Dostoyevsky almost paused as he looked up from his cello. He absently reminded his fingers to keep playing.

Chuuya Nakahara's ocean blue eyes had hardened into cold ice. A black fedora with a silver chain sat firmly on his head, a memento. "I'll do it."

Dostoyevsky nodded. He looked down, back towards his cello to hide the chilling smirk that spread across his face. Honestly, he should have done this sooner.

XXX

Yokohama, Japan

A thought struck Kunikida. "What's Dostoyevsky even after?" He muttered.

The question was loud enough for everyone in the office to hear.

Atsushi tilted his head. "I never thought about that."

Dazai's mouth went dry. He plastered a smile on his face. "The Book." His coworkers looked at him.

Kenji looked the most openly confused. "The Book?"

"An object that can change reality," Ranpo explained. He was sitting on his desk, legs lazily swinging back and forth.

"Ohhh," Kenji replied. "Okay."

Atsushi only looked more confused. "Dazai-san, what is Dostoyevsky planning to do with the Book?"

Dazai chuckled. "Something along the lines of, kill all of the Gifted?" His tone grew slightly sardonic. "He never really took the chance to clarify."

Kunikida's knuckles went white. If he didn't keep his nails impeccably short, he would be leaving indentations on the cover of his notebook.

"That sick b*stard," Yosano flatly commented.

Atsushi was pale. He looked as if all of the color in his face had vanished, leaving behind a whitewashed ghost.

Kyouka grabbed Atsushi's hand, a reassuring presence.

Ranpo moved his gaze slowly around the room—he looked at the Agency, at the ability members around him, his co-workers. Him, a normal human that did not possess any ability no matter how much they all lied. Ranpo stared at the lolipop he had unwrapped. He wrapped it back up—he had lost his appetite for sweets.

XXX

The large office room was empty. The only thing worth the visit for anyone normal would have been the view out the window of the sun low on the horizon, coloring the clouds purple, red, and pink. The sky was a baby blue, a contrast to the cobalt blue bay and metal grey buildings beneath.

Dostoyevsky held the pen in his hands. It was a trap, but that didn't matter. He ignored the beautiful view in front of him in favor of turning over the pen in his hands. He admired the smooth metal nib and the comfortable weight of the black barrel. It was the real thing, the Book's stylus.

"Checked the other floors. No one there," Chuuya reported. He stayed by the door.

"Good. Now, Dazai, would you come out already?" Dostoyevsky cast a cursory glance around the room.

There was a chuckle from the ceiling. A white tile slid aside. Dazai dropped to the floor, gracefully straightening up. He pulled out a pistol, pointing it at Dostoyevsky.

Dostoyevsky sighed. "Are we really doing this? We both know how it goes."

A red dot appeared on Dazai's chest. He shrugged.

A red dot appeared on Dostoyevsky's side and Chuuya's back.

"This is still nonsense," Dostoyevsky dryly said.

A squad of Dostoyevsky's men burst into the room. They were covered in bulletproof armor.

Dazai smiled as he pointed out, "You accuse me of nonsense then just pile on more." He pulled the magazine out of his pistol, letting them both fall to the ground.

Dostoyevsky's expression turned wry. "I decided to try. Turnabout is fair play, after all."

"What, should I get a swat team to break through the office window next?" Dazai cheerfully suggested.

The two masterminds smiles turned into a mix of apathy and slight giddiness. There were few people, no one else really, who could surprise and understand them.

"So what's your actual plan?" Dostoyevsky asked. Dazai wouldn't give Dostoyevsky the pen for nothing in return.

Dazai sighed. Mocking disappointment was blatant in his tone. "You walked into a trap of mine with no idea?"

"You did it a year ago. I decided to return the favor," Dostoyevsky mocked back. He had walked into a trap. But he had taken Chuuya, he deemed that a big enough protection for anything Dazai could throw at him.

Dazai hummed, looking at Chuuya. "You did a good job of getting in his head," he praised. "But I planted my agent a bit, well, deeper." His grin stretched into something monstrous. "Do not wake me again."

Arahabaki hid in the recesses of Chuuya's mind. It did not trickle the images and sensations into Chuuya's mind. It made a hole in the dike and let the flood pour in. It slipped into control during Chuuya's confusion. It breathed for the first time in sixteen years. It unsheathed its knife and hurtled across the room to it's closest target, the squad of Dostoyevsky's men.

Dostoyevsky held a hand up and pointed out the window. He had directed his man to take out Dazai's snipers. The red dots disappeared. Shots cracked out, the glass did nothing to muffle the sounds.

One might have wrongly assumed that bullet proof meant knife proof. It did not. Dazai and Dostoyevsky watched as Arahabaki took its time to tear apart Dostoyevsky's men, playing with them. Stray bullets from the squad embedded themselves in the walls, cracking and breaking off pieces of the wood paneling.

Chuuya stopped moving. He was surrounded by carnage, blood and flesh scattered around him in a similar manner to how confetti and glitter ended up everywhere without one intending it. He wiped one of his bloody gloves off on his dress slacks and picked up one of the squad's guns. He seemed ready to fight again, either with Dazai or the snipers outside.

Dostoyevsky turned back to Dazai, looking sincerely discontented. "That was what you were banking on? Shame it didn't work."

Dazai shrugged. He knew that Arahabaki couldn't permanently take over control unless Chuuya handed it over.

Dostoyevsky was shot in the back of the head, specifically his cerebellum. He fell forward, blood dripping down the back of his neck.

The flood of memories changed Chuuya's mind. It wore away rock and tore away dirt. The ill conceived notions about Dostoyevsky were substituted for knowledge of his plans and the lows the mastermind had gone to. The loyalty to Dostoyevsky was combated by a thousand memories of people Chuuya cared about and trusted. Chuuya was not simply this world's Chuuya anymore—he was all of the other Chuuya's. Each one that worked in the Port Mafia, Armed Detective Agency, and Japanese government. Each one that had killed and sacrificed for the city of Yokohama and the people that lived there.

Dazai grins. "Good to have you back, partner."

"Yeah, yeah. Glad to be back, a*shole."

A/N

Tl;dr Dazai wants his best friend back and Dostoyevsky dead. He is 100% willing to change reality for that to happen.

To explain Dazai's plan: it wasn't having Arahabaki kill Dostoyevsky-it was having Chuuya do it. The way to get Chuuya to do it was to have Chuuya gain the memories of the other hims. Basically, four years of being Dostoyevsky's subordinate and Dazai's enemy versus thousands of years worth of memories of him being Dostoyevsky's enemy, Dazai's partner, being in the Port Mafia, ADA, government, always working against Dostoyevsky, always loving Yokohama the place Dostoyevsky always seemed hellbent on destroying. Basically, Dazai kind of switched out this universe's Chuuya for canon Chuuya (except armed with meta knowledge).

My favorite part of this is definitely Dazai's solution to finding the pen.

Dazai: "Welp, guess I'm going to send Atsushi on a city wide hot-cold game and hope it pans out."

And for some reason, it works.

Shoutout to my betas, TKDGirl17 on and Solitaire_Dreams on Ao3.

-Silver


End file.
